


There Are No Stars In Southern California

by kalypsobean



Category: The Hitcher (2007)
Genre: Dissociation, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stealth Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 05:53:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7703071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Ryder was running from himself. He became someone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Are No Stars In Southern California

America was meant to be freedom: wide open spaces, roads that went nowhere, stars that could be seen, no more need for secrets.

America was meant to be safe.

 

He'd left his phone in a bin at the airport, so neither she nor his handlers could reach him, and he had exchanged enough cash that he wouldn't need to leave a digital trail by accessing any of his squirrel funds. He had no illusions that his bank accounts weren't monitored, though they were both numbered and technically outside British jurisdiction. He used and ditched his emergency passport, hotwired a car from long-term parking, and he disappeared.

 

The memories, however, did not; the things that drove him to run still woke him, and his hands were never still. He'd done enough, seen enough, that he'd internalised it; he didn't sleep without a switchblade near to his hand, and he woke up with it opened. 

He couldn't be near her, not like this.

 

The first time he snapped was over too quickly for him to stop it; he didn't even understand what was happening until he was far away, driving a different car with blood on the seat and his hands steady on the wheel. It was only in his dreams that he killed the man, that his glasses shattered and red bubbles leaked from his mouth, but he woke up to find that there was blood on the blade. 

It was a wonder, really, that it had taken this long.

 

The car, of course, gave out on him in the middle of the night; it was raining, and he was cold. It wasn't long, though, before headlights lit up the road, nearly blinding him as his eyes adjusted. The car spun out, and took off; his jacket was heavy with the rain, and it felt as if it would anchor him, keeping the spiral of rage confined. For a while, it did; a truck came, and the driver dropped him off at a sign that said Buford's Towing. 

And then it snapped; it went through him like ice shattering, leaving small wounds from which the cold spread, leaving him clinical and driven, with the red haze that got him through killing when he needed to, without regret. 

"Don't worry, I wouldn't pick me up either," he said, the accent slipping out perfectly only after limited exposure, just as his training allowed. "Could you give me a ride? To the motel?"

The kid shrugged, and he used the awkwardness to fill the space; he crafted his body language to appear non-threatening, aware of the blade on his hip and the way his weight settled lightly, ready to react at the merest thought. It would be fine. He would get to the motel, he would use his emergency card to pay for the room, get more cash in the morning, get a new car, and be gone.

 

The kid didn't shut up, though; he gave short and vague answers, hoping it would shut down the conversation and allow him to focus, pulling the shards back in and melting them back together. He only meant to have the phone in his hands to have something to do with them, anything that would stop the shaking and settle his mind.

And then he was on the road, wet, bleeding, and a phone rang by his head.

 

He watched the rest from outside his head, somehow; it was him, and it wasn't. These were things he'd learned and never used, the way he created pain. He'd thought it was over when he'd found the family, and they'd let him be, playing with the toys and with the pastor on the radio talking him down, but it wasn't. It wasn't over when he turned himself in, careful to keep his secrets hidden, so he wouldn't have to go back.

 

It wasn't over when she shot him and he felt the road hit his back and dig into his arms. It went black, and he was back in his head, but it wasn't over.

~*~

"Martin? Martin, can you hear me?"

He woke up to white walls and machines, a blonde woman holding his hand. "You were in an accident. It's okay now, you're in hospital. You'll be fine." 

He was sure he didn't know her, but the name on his wristband matched, and when Nelson walks in, clears the room, and tells him he's expected back at work, it fits, somehow. "Don't lose this one," he says, and leaves a badge on the table. The woman looks at it with something like wariness when she comes back.

"Are you sure?" she says. "So soon?"

But becoming other people, working undercover, killing if he has to; it fits, and it's the only thing that does.

"Yeah," he says, and lets her kiss his forehead.

 

When everyone's gone, he pulls himself up out of the bed and stumbles towards the window; there's a beeping behind him, but he pays it no mind. There are no stars visible from the window, but, somehow, the blank sky feels comforting, as if it's part of him.

"Mr Odum, you have to get back in bed," someone says, and he lets them push him back down, put the wires back on. There isn't anything else to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Crossover is with 'Legends'. John Ryder is Alexei Volkov/Martin Odum/John Cameron/etc.


End file.
